


ascending hands

by Oxygen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 17:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9560321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oxygen/pseuds/Oxygen
Summary: The clouds whip by him. The ocean waits below.Jamison dreams.





	

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVGmfmSrw2M

Groaning. Creaking. Water drips from the ceiling, splashes on Jamison’s forehead as he awakens.

He looks up. It’s hard to see the ceiling-- the holder is high as hell and dark as the night, with only some light bouncing off of consoles and an opening up top. Hard to see the floor too. He’s suspended by chains too ancient-looking, too ancient-feeling, for the futuristic design of the holder.

He wiggles his prosthetics. Least they let him keep those.

 

Jamison doesn’t know how or why he got here. Suppose it doesn’t matter. He knows he’s being held in a carrier, knows that suits are behind this. The clouds whip by and an ocean stretches below him, gray and unending and viciously indifferent to their plight.

His head hurts. He turns to see Roadhog-- no, his creation-- suspended beside him in a heavy, sleek stock that protrudes from the wall. He blinks, shakes his head, looks again. That’s definitely Roadhog. Who is his creation?

The walls and floors are sparsely lined with oddities like them-- old soldiers, medics, beasts with a posture too sentient for his liking. Deadly quiet. Deadly unresponsive.

 

He begins… slipping. He should be falling, but something’s wrong-- time, the room, it flows like sand through his hands, through his head, through his eyes, and then Roadhog looms behind him. A voice commands the man, a voice without volume, one he understands, knows it exists, knows it plays over a loudspeaker but can’t _hear--_

Roadhog grips his waist. Jamison can feel the regret, the anger, the powerlessness in his fingertips. Lightning rips through him. He doesn’t waste time on the details. He can hear himself sobbing, knows tears stream down his bodyguard’s face. For a second, he sees both Roadhog and his creation, suspended and intersecting and oscillating and _existing_ in ways that shouldn’t be possible but make sense to him.

 

He blinks. Different setting, different time. He sees his limp body being carted away through various rooms. He sees himself thrown out of the carrier, through the clouds-- thrashing, hadn’t died _\--_ into the vast expanse below.

He blinks again. Jamison Junkenstein is equipped with bombs, the know-how, and the liberty Junkrat did not have. He plans to put it all to good use. He rigs explosives on the floor, on the wall, doesn’t know why. Blows a hole through the carrier. Turns his attention to the console. The holes cease to exist.

 

“There’s no one to stop me now!” He shouts to no one in particular, to everyone in particular, to prisoners he came to rescue that no longer line the walls. Not that he notices.

 

He hijacks a console. Various visuals load-- oscilloscopes, bars, graphs, gray, green, red, _Welcome, Dr. Junkenstein_ \-- and his creation bursts through the console. It stands besides him, ready to tear through the the doors of the holder, through anyone that stands before him, electricity illuminating their corner of the room.

Someone knocks behind wall of the container that held his creation. Fervent, unreal knocking, the wall juts forward and back to the rhythm of the beating. A prisoner. He knocks back to let them know he’s working on it, that he'll have them out in no time--

 

A blank slip--

He blinks, the door--

 

The events happen simultaneously. He opens a door on the other end of the room. The prisoner behind the walls slips him a paper, blank until he sees a golden scythe slice through the air just centimeters from his fingertips. He jumps back, heart racing.

 

Neatly printed: _Your escape ticket is an arm or a leg._

 

It was a warning. If he tries to leave, the golden scythe cuts through him as he steps out. Then, it was a shit deal-- they hack a limb off and he’s “free to go”, even as he bleeds to death or sinks to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.

Now, it’s an offer. They’ll upgrade one of his prosthetic limbs, hell, _bring it back_ if he wants to (whatever that means, it’s a limb like any other now as far as he’s concerned.) He just has to leave his creation behind.

 

_How depraved are you, Doctor Jamison Junkenstein? Will you leave your life’s work in our hands in exchange for your freedom? Will you leave a sentient being to suffer alone in the dark for the rest of eternity, knowing that his master left him in favor of his own pursuits?_

 

Absolutely not.

 

 

 

Show’s over. The TV shuts off. The simulation powers down. The dream ends.

 

He drifts back to consciousness. He’s in his shack, back in Australia, back in reality. Hog lies next to him, sleeping, dreaming, soft leather skin draped loosely over the both them. Moonlight filters in through a glassless window across the room.

It’s the night before they leave this shithole once and for all. They’ve got all of the supplies they need, plus a boat they’ve scrapped together in the last few months. Know how and why they’re going to make the drive to the ocean undeterred. Plan to drift around the coast to New Zealand, rendezvous with some old pals, and from there, it’s the world.

 

Gonna be the first time Jamison interacts with civvies and suits, if everything goes right, which there's even no guarantee of. Reckon that’s why he dreamt what he did, with the suits and the ocean and all.

 

He looks at Hog again. The big man seems to be in a peaceful slumber, belly expanding and contracting languidly, snoring without a care in the world.

…but perhaps he isn’t. Perhaps he’s enchained in a carrier ten kilometers above the earth, with the clouds whipping by him and an ocean ready to swallow him whole.

 

Perhaps Hog doesn’t dream at all.

 

He rests a hand on Hog's face. His eyes flutter open.

**Author's Note:**

> Anon wanted me to write a fic for a dream I had, a TV show where Junkrat was being held hostage in some kind of carrier. Tried to capture it to the best of my ability.


End file.
